Crooked House by Agatha Christie
Also available in Large Print
by Agatha Christie:
The A.B.C. Murders
The Body in the Library
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
The Secret Adversary
Three Blind Mice and Other Stories
AGATHA
GHRJSTTE
CROOKED HOUSE
G.K.HALL&CO.
Boston, Massachusetts
1988
The characters, places, incidents and situations in I this hook are imaginary and have no relation to any
person, place, or actual happening
Copyright 1948, 1949 by Agatha Christie MaUowan.
? renewed 1976, 1977 by Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved.
Published in Large Print by arrangement with
Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series.
Set in 18 pt Plantin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Christie, Agatha, 18901976.
Crooked house / Agatha Christie.
p. cm.--(G.K. Hall large print book series)
ISBN 0-8161-4463-X (Ig. print)
ISBN 0-8161-4502-4 (Ig. print.-pb)
1. Large type books. I. Tide.
[PR6005.H66C76 1988]
823'.912--dcl9 87-32146
CIP
To PUNKIE,
who likes an orthodox detective story,
murder, inquest, and suspicion
falling on everyone in turn!
%
CROOKED HOUSE
^
One
I first came to know Sophia Leonides in
Egypt towards the end of the war. She held
a fairly high administrative post in one of
the Foreign Office departments out there.
I knew her first in an official capacity, and
I soon appreciated the efficiency that had
brought her to the position she held, in
spite of her youth (she was at that time just
twenty two). 4
Besides being extremely easy to look at,
she had a clear mind and a dry sense of
humour that I found very delightful. We
became friends. She was a person whom it
was extraordinarily easy to talk to and we
enjoyed our dinners and occasional dances
very much.
All this I knew; it was not until I was
ordered East at the close of the European
war that I knew something else ? that I
loved Sophia and that I wanted to marry
her.
We were dining at Shepheard's when I
made this discovery. It did not come to me
with any shock of surprise, but more as the
recognition of a fact with which I had been
long familiar. I looked at her with new eyes
-- but I saw what I had already known for
a long time. I liked everything I saw. The
dark crisp hair that sprang up proudly from
her forehead, the vivid blue eyes, the small
square fighting chin, and the straight nose.
I liked the well cut light grey tailormade, and the crisp white shirt. She looked
refreshingly English and that appealed to
me strongly after three years without seeing
my native land. Nobody, I thought, could
be more English -- and even as I was
thinking exactly that, I suddenly wondered
if, in fact, she was, or indeed could be, as
English as she looked. Does the real thing
ever have the perfection of a stage performance?
I realised that much and freely as we had
talked together, discussing ideas, our likes
and dislikes, the future, our immediate
friends and acquaintances -- Sophia had
never mentioned her home or her family.
She knew all about me (she was, as I have
indicated, a good listener) but about her I
knew nothing. She had, I supposed, the
usual background, but she had never talked
about it. And until this moment I had never
realised the fact.
Sophia asked me what I was thinking
about.
I replied truthfully: "You."
"I see," she said. And she sounded as
though she did see.
"We may not meet again for a couple of
years," I said. "I don't know when I shall
get back to England. But as soon as I do
get back, the first thing I shall do will be
to come and see you and ask you to marry
me."
She took it without batting an eyelash.
She sat there, smoking, not looking at me.
For a moment or two I was nervous that
she might not understand.
"Listen," I said. "The one thing I'm
determined not to do, is to ask you to marry
me now. That wouldn't work out anyway.
First you might turn me down, and then
I'd go off miserable and probably tie up
with some ghastly woman just to restore
my vanity. And if you didn't turn me down
what could we do about it? Get married
and part at once? Get engaged and settle
down to a long waiting period. I couldn't
stand your doing that. You might meet
someone else and feel bound to be 'loyal5 to me. We've been living in a queer hectic
get-on-with-it-quickly atmosphere. Marriages
and love affairs making and breaking
all round us. I'd like to feel you'd gone
home, free and independent, to look round f you and size up the new post-war world
and decide what you want out of it. What
is between you and me, Sophia, has got to
be permanent. I've no use for any other
kind of marriage."
"No more have I," said Sophia.
"On the other hand," I said, "I think I
I'm entitled to let you know how I -- well
--how I feel."
"But without undue lyrical expression?"
murmured Sophia.
"Darling -- don't you understand? I've
tried not to say I love you --"
She stopped me.
"I do understand, Charles. And I like
your funny way of doing things. And you
may come and see me when you come back
-- if you still want to --"
It was my turn to interrupt.
"There's do doubt about that."
"There's always a doubt about everything,
Charles. There may always be some
incalculable factor that upsets the apple
cart. For one thing, you don't know much
about me, do you?"
"I don't even know where you live in
England."
"I live at Swinly Dean."
I I nodded at the mention of the wellknown
outer suburb of London which
boasts three excellent golf courses for the
city financier.
She added softly in a musing voice: "In
a little crooked house ..."
I must have looked slightly startled, for
she seemed amused, and explained by
elaborating the quotation " 'And they all
lived together in a little crooked house.' That's
us. Not really such a little house either.
But definitely cr
and halftimbering!" ^
"Are you one of a large family? Brothers
and sisters?"
"One brother, one sister, a mother, a
father, an uncle, an aunt by marriage, a
grandfather, a great aunt and a step
grandmother."
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed, slightly
overwhelmed.
She laughed.^
"Of course we don't normally all live
together. The war and blitzes have brought
that about ? but I don't know ?" she
frowned reflectively ? "perhaps spiritually
the family has always lived together ?
under my grandfather's eye and protection.
He's rather a Person, my grandfather. He's
over eighty, about four foot ten, and
everybody else looks rather dim beside
him."
"He sounds interesting," I said.
"He is interesting. He's a Greek from
Smyrna. Aristide Leonides." She added,
with a twinkle, "He's extremely rich."
"Will anybody be rich after this is over?"
"My grandfather will," said Sophia with
assurance. "No Soak-the-rich tactics would
have any effect on him. He'd just soak the
soakers.
"I wonder," she added, "if you'll like
him?"
"Do you?" I asked.
"Better than anyone in the world," said
Sophia.
Two
It was over two years before I returned to
England. They were not easy years. I wrote
to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently.
Her letters, like mine, were not
love letters. They were letters written to
each other by close friends -- they dealt
with ideas and thoughts and with comments
on the daily trend of life. Yet I know that
as far as I was concerned, and I believed as
far as Sophia was concerned too, our feeling
for each other grew and strengthened.
I returned to England on a soft grey day
in September. The leaves on the trees were
golden in the evening light. There were
playful gusts of wind. From the airfield I
sent a telegram to Sophia.
"Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening
Mario's nine o'clock Charles^
A couple of hours later I was sitting
reading the Times; and scanning the Births
Marriages and Death column my eye was
caught by the name Leonides:
On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables, Swinly
Dean, Aristide Leonides, beloved husband
of Brenda Leonides 5 in his eighty fifth
year. Deeply regretted.
There was another announcement immediately
below:
Leonides. Suddenly, at his residence
Three Gables, Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides.
Deeply mourned by his loving
children and grandchildren. Flowers to St.
Eldred's Church, Swinly Dean.
I found the two announcements rather
curious. There seemed to have been some
faulty staff work resulting in overlapping.
But my main preoccupation was Sophia. I
hastily sent her a second telegram:
"Just seen news of your grandfather's death.
Very sorry. Let me know when I can see you.
Charles."
A telegram from Sophia reached me at
six o'clock at my father's house. It said:
"Will be at Mario's nine o'clock. Sophia."
The thought of meeting Sophia again
made me both nervous and excited. The
time crept by with maddening slowness. I
was at Mario's waiting twenty minutes too
early. Sophia herself was only five minutes
late.
It is always a shock to meet again someone
whom you have not seen for a long time
but who has been very much present in
your mind during that period. When at last
Sophia came through the swing doors our
meeting seemed completely unreal. She was
wearing black, and that, in some curious
way, startled me! Most other women were
wearing black, but I got it into my head
that it was definitely mourning -- and it
surprised me that Sophia should be the
kind of person who did wear black -- even
for a near relative.
We had cocktails -- then went and
found our table. We talked rather fast and
feverishly -- asking after old friends of the
Cairo days. It was artificial conversation
but it tided us over the first awkwardness.
I expressed commiseration for her grandfather's
death and Sophia said quietly that
it had been "very sudden." Then we started
off again reminiscing. I began to feel,
uneasily, that something was the matter --
something, I mean, other than the first
natural awkwardnesses of meeting again.
There was something wrong, definitely
wrong, with Sophia herself. Was she,
perhaps, going to tell me that she had found
some other man whom she cared for more
than she did for me? That her feeling for
me had been "all a mistake"?
Somehow I didn't think it was that ? I
didn't know what it was. Meanwhile we
continued our artificial talk.
Then, quite suddenly, as the waiter placed
coffee on the table and retired bowing,
everything swung into focus. Here were
Sophia and I sitting together as so often
before at a small table in a restaurant. The
years of our separation might never have
been. -
"Sophia," I said.
And immediately she said, "Charles!"
I drew a deep breath of relief.
"Thank goodness that's over," I said.
"What's been the matter with us?"
"Probably my fault. I was stupid."
"But it's all right now?"
"Yes, it's all right now."
We smiled at each other.
"Darling!" I said. And then: "How soon
will you marry me?"
Her smile died. The something, whatever
it was, was back.
"I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure,
Charles, that I can ever marry you."
"But, Sophia! Why not? Is it because
you feel I'm a stranger? Do you want time
to get used to me again? Is there someone
else? No ?" I broke off. "I'm a fool. It's
none of those things."
"No, it isn't." She shook her head. I
waited. She said in a low voice:
"It's my grandfather's death."
"Your grandfather's death? But why?
What earthly difference can that make? You
don't mean ? surely you can't imagine ?
is it money? Hasn't he left any? But surely,
dearest?"
"It isn't money." She gave a fleeting
smile. "I think you'd be quite willing to
'take me in my shift' as the old saying goes.
And grandfather never lost any money in
his life."
"Then what is it?"
"It's just his death ? you see, I think,
Charles, that he didn't just ? die. I think
he may have been ? killed ..."
I stared at her.
you think of it?"
"I didn't think of it. The doctor was
queer to begin with. He wouldn't sign a
certificate. They're going to have a post
mortem. It's quite clear that they suspect
something is wrong."
I didn't dispute that with her. Sophia
had plenty of brains; any conclusions she
had drawn could be relied upon.
Instead I said earnestly:
"Their suspicions may be quite unjustified.
But putting that aside, supposing that
they are justified, how does that affect you
and me?"
"It might under certain circumstances.
You're in the Diplomatic Service. They're
rather particular about wives. No -- please
don't say all the things that you're just
bursting to say. You're bound to say them
-- and I believe you really think them --
and theoretically I quite agree with them.
But I'm proud -- I'm devilishly proud. I
want our marriage to be a good thing for
everyone -- I don't want to represent one
half of a sacrifice for love! And, as I say, it
may be all right ..."
"You mean the doctor -- may have made
a mistake?"
"Even if he hasn't made a mistake, it
won't matter -- so long as the right person
killed him."
"What do you mean, Sophia?" J
"It was a beastly thing to say. But, after
all, one might as well be honest."
She forestalled my next words.
"No, Charles, I'm not going to say any
more. I've probably said too much already.
But I was determined to come and meet
you tonight -- to see you myself and make
you understand. We can't settle anything
until this is cleared up."
"At least tell me about it."
&
"I don't want to."
"But--Sophia--" r m u
"No, Charles. I don't want you to see us
from my angle. I want you to see us unbiassed
from the outside point of view."
"And how am I to do that?"
She looked at me, a queer light in her
brilliant blue eyes.
"You'll get that from your father," she
said.
I had told Sophia in Cairo that my father
was Assistant Commissioner of Scotland
Yard. He still held that office. At her
words, I felt a cold weight settling down
on me.
"It's as bad as that, then?"
"I think so. Do you see a man sitting at
a table by the door all alone -- rather a
nice-looking stolid ex-Army type?"
"Yes."
"He was on Swinly Dean platform this
evening when I got into the train."
"You mean he's followed you here?"
"Yes. I think we're all -- how does one
put it? -- under observation. They more or
less hinted that we'd all better not leave the
house. But I was determined to see you."
Her small square chin shot out pugnaciously.
"I got out of the bathroom window
and shinned down the water pipe."
"Darling!"
"But the police are very efficient. And of
course there was the telegram I sent you.
Well -- never mind -- we're here --
together . . . But from now on, we've both
got to play a lone hand."
She paused and then added:
"Unfortunately -- there's no doubt --
about our loving each other."
"No doubt at all," I said. "And don't
say unfortunately. You and I have survived
a world war, we've had plenty of near
escapes from sudden death -- and I don't
see why the sudden death of just one old
man -- how old was he, by the way?"
"Eighty five."
"Of course. It was in the Times. If you |
ask me, he just died of old age, and any
self-respecting G.P. would accept the fact."
"If you'd known my grandfather," said
Sophia, "you'd have been surprised at his
dying of anything!"
Three
I'd always taken a certain amount of interest
in my father's police work, but nothing had
prepared me for the moment when I should
come to take a direct and personal interest
in it.
I had not yet seen the Old Man. He had
been out when I arrived, and after a bath,
a shave and a change I had gone out to
meet Sophia. When I returned to the house,
however. Glover told me that he was in his
study.
He was at his desk, frowning over a lot
of papers. He jumped up when I came
in.
"Charles! Well, well, it's been a long
time."
Our meeting, after five years of war,
would have disappointed a Frenchman.
Actually all the emotion of reunion was
there all right. The Old Man and I are very
fond of each other, and we understand each
other pretty well.
"I've got some whisky," he said. "Say
when. Sorry I was out when you got here.
I'm up to the ears in work. Hell of a case
just unfolding."
I leaned back in my chair and lit a
cigarette.
"Aristide Leonides?" I asked.
His brows came down quickly over his
eyes. He shot me a quick appraising glance.
His voice was polite and steely.
"Now what makes you say that, Charles?"
"I'm right then?"
"How did you know about this?"
"Information received.''
The Old Man waited.
"My information," I said, "came from
the stable itself."
"Come on, Charles, let's have it."
"You mayn't like it," I said. "I met
Sophia Leonides out in Cairo. I fell in love
with her. I'm going to marry her. I met
her tonight. She dined with me."
"Dined with you? In London? I wonder
just how she managed to do that? The